And Death Goes to . . .

by Laura Bradford

  “Oh I’ve witnessed all of that. I’m just not sure if she’s that way because of an innate bent toward cruelty or because of something else—something far more basic.”

  I flung myself forward and out of my chair, my hand now trembling from anger more than anything else. “More basic than just plain mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Such as?”

  “Loneliness. A lack of friends. Take your pick.”

  “If Rapple is lonely and has no friends, it’s her own fault.”

  JoAnna gave a halfhearted shrug and then made her way back around her desk to her chair. “The part you need to remember in all of this is that your grandfather apparently sees a different side of her. And if the way he was with her at both the awards dinner and back here at the party afterward was any indication, he likes that side a lot.”

  Like a balloon that’s been pricked with a pin, I felt the fight leave my body. “Oh God, please don’t say that. We’re talking about Rapple, remember?”

  “Did you happen to notice the way she was with him? The way she looked at him and after him the whole night? If you did, then you have to know she’s pretty smitten with him.”

  “Maybe she thinks he has money.”

  “Money? C’mon Tobi, you’re being silly now. He lives in an assisted living facility and doesn’t even own a car.”

  I couldn’t argue, so I stayed silent.

  “Maybe, just maybe he brings out the best in her. And maybe, just maybe, if you give her a chance, you’ll realize there’s more to this woman than what she’s shown you these past few years.”

  “I’m not giving her anything, least of all a chance,” I murmured like the petulant child I was being at that moment.

  “And you can certainly take that route if you so choose. But if you love your grandfather the way I know you do, you need to accept that he seems to enjoy her company right now. And whatever this is or isn’t may only last a few weeks…or a few months…or even a few years. You can’t know that yet. But you do know that your grandfather is a smart cookie. And if he thinks there’s something special about this woman, you need to accept that. You owe him that.”

  More than anything I wanted to argue until the cows came home, but I couldn’t. JoAnna was right. My grandfather had stood beside me, championing me and my choices my entire life.

  “Ugh!!! I know you’re right JoAnna, I really do. I just…”

  “You just need to find a way to trust him, Tobi.”

  “I never stopped. Not ever.”

  “Then trust his choice in friends. Even if it’s Ms. Rapple.”

  “I’ll try…to try.” I took one more deep breath and then smiled at my secretary-turned-personal lifesaver. “Thank you, JoAnna. For everything. Always.”

  “Anytime.” JoAnna lowered herself back into position behind her computer but stopped short of returning her hands to the keyboard. “I’ll let you know when Mr. Brogan from Brogan’s Microbrewery arrives. In the meantime, is there anything you need me to do beyond the usual?”

  “Can you see if any funeral arrangements have been made for Deidre Ryan and send some flowers over from us? And while you’re at it, maybe see if someone is setting up some sort of scholarship fund for her kids that I can donate to?” I started to turn toward my office but stopped as yet another idea hit. “And if you have a few moments, could you compile a list of the campaigns Deidre has worked on?”

  “Of course.” JoAnna plucked a pen from the wooden holder to the left of her computer and jotted herself a reminder. “Are you looking for anything in particular?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I’m hoping I’ll know it when I see it.”

  ~Chapter Eight~

  I was just finishing up with my post-meeting notes on the microbrewery when JoAnna knocked on my door with a look that got my immediate attention. “Please tell me you didn’t overhear Eric calling another ad agency on his way out the door.”

  “Of course not. Quite the contrary, in fact; he was whistling when he waved good-bye. Which leads me to believe you’ve just added another client to the stable.”

  Tossing my pen onto my notes, I slumped back against my chair, the relief over another successful meeting merging with my lack of sleep and making me wish I was back in preschool with its mandatory nap-time. “Let’s hope you’re right. The more padding of the bottom line we have, the better.”

  JoAnna stepped all the way into my office, her favorite notepad in her hand. “Deidre’s viewing is scheduled from four to six and again from seven to nine tomorrow night, with a funeral mass being held at St. Mary’s the following day at eleven. Tobias Ad Agency will have a floral arrangement at the funeral home, and the director of the home said he’d get back to me on whether anyone is setting up a scholarship fund for her children or not.”

  “If there’s not, maybe we should.” I pushed my notes off to the side of my desk and reached for the rest of my chocolate donut, inhaling it in three bites while JoAnna shook her head in amusement. “What? I didn’t finish it for breakfast.”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “No, but your eyes did.” I wiped the corners of my mouth with the napkin that had housed my donut over the past two hours and then balled it up and tossed it into the wastebasket next to my feet.

  “And what, exactly, did they say?”

  “That my food choices leave much to be desired.”

  “My eyes said that?” JoAnna challenged.

  “Yup.”

  “I bought you that donut, remember?”

  “But you intended it for breakfast.”

  JoAnna rolled her eyes and gestured toward my phone. “Did you call him?”

  “Him?”

  “Your former colleague, Ben.”

  I sat up, shifted through my pile of notes, and plucked out the message. “Nope, but I will now.”

  JoAnna came over to my desk, worked her organizing magic, and, when my meeting notes were in one pile and my to-do notes in another, she stepped back, hooking her thumb over her shoulder as she did. “Think you can hold off on calling him back just a little longer?”

  If it was possible to feel one’s ears perk, mine were perking. “Is this about that list? Of Deidre’s campaigns?”

  “There’s a lot there so it’s taking a while, but, no, this isn’t about her past campaigns.”

  “But it’s about her?”

  JoAnna’s gaze dropped to her wristwatch before returning to me and motioning me to follow.

  Shrugging, I accompanied her out of my office and down the hallway, my gaze immediately gravitating toward the series of shadow boxes that were starting to fill up the wall quite nicely. Each box represented another client, another campaign. I loved the sight of them all for vastly different reasons, but my favorite was, without a doubt, the one representing Zander Closet Company. It had been a gift from Andy that I would treasure for the rest of my life. That glass-fronted box with the miniature skeleton hanging from the rod and the gold plate displaying my slogan for Zander Closet Company: When we’re done, even your skeletons will have a place, had said so much about him. He listened, he cared, and he got me.

  The rest of the boxes had come from JoAnna who had liked Andy’s line of thinking so much she’d decided to keep it going. Now, I had shadow boxes representing my work on New Town, Pizza Adventure, Salonquility, Peter Piper’s Children’s Boutique, and, hopefully soon, Brogan’s Microbrewery.

  JoAnna veered into the extra room that doubled as my pitch room for new clients, tripled as my place to view my competitors’ campaigns via the tiny television in the corner of the room, and quadrupled as Grandpa Stu’s investigation command center when he was in town and needed access to a computer and an assistant (aka JoAnna).

  “We only have a few seconds.” After grabbing the remote off the conference table, JoAnna aimed it at the television
. “I’m sure it’ll be the lead in.”

  “Lead in?”

  JoAnna nodded, motioned me over to one of the conference table chairs, and then took the one next to it. “I went to Channel Five’s website a little while ago to see if they had any information pertaining to scholarships for Deidre’s children.”

  “Okay…”

  “They didn’t have anything. What they did have, however, was a teaser for the noon news show.”

  “Snow in April?” I joked.

  The familiar opening music for the station’s newscast muted my laughter as a familiar face filled the screen. Only this time, instead of a tuxedo and the same cheesy proud-of-himself grin he’d worn for his master of ceremony duties on Saturday night, Carl Brinkman wore his standard suit jacket and the same serious expression he wore at the start of each and every newscast he anchored. “Did he get demoted because of all those bad jokes the other night? Is that why he’s anchoring the noon news instead of—”

  “Shhhh.”

  “Good afternoon, everyone, I’m Carl Brinkman, sitting in for Alicia Haldiman. As many of you know, I was serving as Master of Ceremonies for the annual St. Louis Advertising Awards on Saturday night when tragedy struck a young St. Louis area mother. Deidre Ryan, of The Whitestone Advertising Agency, had only recently returned to full-time employment and was being recognized for her work on the St. Louis Public Library’s annual reading campaign when the platform on which she was standing, after receiving her field’s highest honor, gave way beneath her feet, sending her to her death in what was quickly ruled a deliberate act. Today, police are working hard to find her killer, while those behind the scenes of the award show are asking the same questions the rest of us are asking.”

  Mavis Callahan appeared on the screen, the footage obviously shot the night of the awards. “I-I don’t understand. It wasn’t supposed to be this way,” Mavis moaned in a voice choked with emotion before the image on the screen moved to an on-air female reporter standing outside Callahan Advertising in downtown St. Louis. The box at the bottom of the screen said it was live.

  “For those not familiar with the St. Louis Advertising community, Mavis Callahan has been involved in the annual award show since the very beginning. And when her husband, Shamus Callahan died, she made sure to keep it running, year after year, in his honor. Yet today, many inside the Callahan Foundation are likely wishing she hadn’t.”

  The image changed again as footage, shot earlier that morning, played on the screen. I watched, along with JoAnna, as employee after employee was stopped on their way into work to share their “feelings” on what had transpired at the annual award show over the weekend. A few of those interviewed used words like “shocked’ and “saddened.” Another simply swiped at her eyes, said something about being glad Shamus Callahan hadn’t been around to witness the awful tragedy, and then hurried inside the building, head down.

  Eventually, the reporter appeared back on the screen just long enough to send it back to Carl in the newsroom. When she did, I turned to JoAnna. “And why did we need to see that?”

  JoAnna pointed the remote at the screen and powered off the television set. “I thought maybe they’d have something new that would negate your need to get involved. Instead, they simply exploited that poor woman.”

  “You mean Mavis?”

  Nodding, JoAnna wrapped the fingers of her left hand around the tiny locket affixed to the thin gold chain around her neck and slid it back and forth. “It’s just that seeing that woman in such pain gets to me.”

  I don’t know what I was expecting her to say, but that wasn’t it. “I don’t understand.”

  “She’s older than me, of course. Probably a good twenty years older. But I remember my mom coming back from her friend’s house one day, talking about poor Mavis Callahan. And that’s how she said it—poor Mavis Callahan.”

  My stomach registered its hunger once again, prompting me to cover it with what I hoped was a muting hand. “You mean because of Shamus’s affair back in the day? Trust me, I wrestle with that all the time, especially having been philandered on, myself. But his campaigns were amazing and you almost forget about that bad side when you think back on his legacy.”

  “No small thanks to Mavis.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s because of that woman’s grace in handling his indiscretion that so many people are able to look past the skeletons in Shamus Callahan’s closet.”

  I waited to see if her unintentional nod to my campaign for Zander Closet Company would register, but when it didn’t I moved on. “I have to admit, I was taken by her obvious affection for Kevin’s children at the award show. So much so, I didn’t even really think about them only being her grandchildren by way of that same affair.”

  “Yet another example of Mavis Callahan’s grace. Not only did she stay with Shamus after she found out, she also welcomed the child born from that affair into her home when his mother—aka the mistress—died of cancer a few years later.”

  “I can’t imagine it, but it sure seems as if they’ve forged a real mother/son relationship. A relationship that now extends to his children, as well.” I allowed myself a momentary smile at the memory of the Callahan matriarch fawning over her granddaughter and then turned my attention back to a still frowning JoAnna. “What? What’s with that face?”

  “I don’t think many people paid attention to what that man”—JoAnna pointed at the now darkened television screen—“said on Saturday night, but Mavis was an artist when she met Shamus Callahan.”

  My stomach gurgled its awareness of the lunch hour, but I did my best to ignore it in favor of providing the pair of ears it seemed JoAnna needed at that moment.

  “My mom knew Mavis from church. Said Mavis was incredibly talented, yet pushed it all aside to be the good, supportive wife of a man who ended up humiliating her in such a public way.” JoAnna rose to her feet and made her way around the conference table, her steps aimless. “You know that award you wanted so badly? The one I’m certain you’ll have one day?”

  “How could I forget? I’ve dreamed about it for years.”

  And I was this close.…

  “I don’t mean the category, Tobi. I mean the actual award—the trophy.”

  “The Golden Storyboard.” I heard the wistful tone of my voice and felt the answering guilt as my thoughts traveled back to Saturday night and that look on Deidre’s face just before she fell. “Carl said Mavis designed it.”

  “She did. According to my mom, Shamus asked Mavis to make it something special—something worthy of such talent. And she did that on top of helping him get that inaugural award show up and off the ground.”

  “Well, she did an amazing job on both fronts. The award show is still going strong now, forty-one years later. And in terms of the Golden Storyboard, it is the coveted award by everyone in my field.”

  I followed JoAnna around the room with my eyes, watching as she stopped to neaten the computer area (it didn’t need it), place the remote on top of the television (it was fine on the table where she’d left it), and push in every chair around the conference table (with the exception of the one I was sitting in, although she tried). I considered pulling the boss card and making her sit, but I knew she’d get to whatever was bothering her in time.

  And I was right.

  “Do you know why Shamus Callahan started that award show in the first place?”

  Based on the way she was setting the questions up, I suspected my answer was inadequate, but I gave it anyway. “Because he thought it would be fun?”

  JoAnna made a face. “More like because he was trying to lavish his mistress with attention and praise.”

  Like a bloodhound who’d just hit on a scent, I sat up tall. “Wait. Kevin’s mother was in the business?”

  “That she was.”

  Whoa. How I’d missed that salacio
us tidbit was beyond me. Then again, when it came to work, I was pretty focused. And workplace gossip had never held much appeal for me. “Anyone I would have heard of?”

  “Theresa Kinney.”

  My mouth dropped open. Literally.

  When it finally returned to its normal position, I leaned forward. “Theresa Kinney…as in the first person to ever win Best Overall? For”—I stopped, snapped my fingers in an effort to help my brain along, and then pointed at JoAnna as I struck memory gold—“MoDot, right?”

  “I guess. I don’t know.”

  “I looked it up—along with all the other winning campaigns since then—when I was nominated. You know, so I could get a feel for the pioneers before me.” I dropped my hand back down to the table as I recalled the hours I’d spent happily slogging through old advertising campaigns at the Callahan Foundation’s offices downtown. I was a dweeb and I knew it. So, too, did JoAnna. “Just about every one of the winning campaigns hit it out of the ballpark in terms of creativity and memorability. Except—”

  I braced my hands on the edge of the table, pushed back my chair, and stood, my thoughts rewinding to the moment I’d walked into my ex-fiancé’s apartment and found him in bed with a waitress from our favorite restaurant—the one where we’d gotten engaged, in fact. At the time, and in the months that followed my heartbreaking humiliation, I’d actually managed to convince myself they didn’t come any slimier than Nick.

  “Wait. So you’re telling me he had Mavis—his wife—help plan an award show he started solely because of his pregnant mistress?”

  “Actually, I’m telling you he had Mavis design the award he made sure the floozy got.”

  Wow.

  I took a moment to process what I was hearing, my mind’s eye taking me back, again and again, to the sight of Mavis, smiling at her granddaughter at the Callahan table on Saturday night. Sure, I’d known the granddaughter was Kevin’s child. And yes, I’d known Kevin was the product of an affair Mavis’s husband had decades earlier. But I’d never known the sordid details. And now that I did, I couldn’t help but feel both pity and awe for Mavis Callahan.